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No. 10.]

PRICE TWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE.

[APRIL, 1888.

CENTURA

GUILD

LONDON.

KECAN PAUL,TRENCH ANDCO!
1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE.

“THE CENTURY GUILD HOBBY HORSE.

The aim of the Century Guild is to render all branches of Art the
sphere, no longer of the tradesman, but of the artist. It would restore
building, decoration, glass-painting, pottery, wood-carving, and metal¬
work to their rightful place beside painting and sculpture. By so
placing them they would be once more regarded as legitimate and
honourable expressions of the artistic spirit, and would stand in their
true relation not only to sculpture and painting but to the drama, to
music, and to literature.

In other words, the Century Guild seeks to emphasize the Unity
of Art ; and by thus dignifying Art in all its forms, it hopes to make it
living, a thing of our own century, and of the people.

In the Hobby Horse, the Guild will provide a means of expression
for these aims, and for other serious thoughts about Art.

The matter of the Hobby Horse will deal, chiefly, with the
practical application of Art to life ; but it will also contain illustrations
and poems, as well as literary and biographical essays.

All communications to be addressed to the Editor, care of

KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH AND CO.

PUBLISHED QUARTERLY.

To be had of all Booksellers.

CONTENTS OF NO. X.

PAGE

Frontispiece: “Miranda:” being a reproduction in photo¬
gravure of the chalk drawing by Frederick Sandys.

By the kind permission of J. Anderson Rose, Esq.

“A Hope Carol.” Christina G. Rossetti . . . . . 41

“Is Music the Type or Measure of all Art?” John

Addington Symonds ...... 42

“Amata Loquitur.” Herbert P. Horne . 52

“ On some old Title-pages, with a sketch of their origin,

AND SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE IMPROVEMENT OF
MODERN ONES.” Alfred W. Pollard . . .57

Facsimile of the Title-page of a Roman Missal, printed by
Lucantonio de Giunta at Venice, 1509

To face page 57

Facsimile of the Title-page of an edition of the Commen¬
taries of Simplicius on Aristotle’s Categories,

PRINTED BY ZACHARIAS KaLLIERGOS FOR NlCOLAOS

Blastos, at Venice, 1499 . . To face page 60

“In the Days of the Philistines.” S el wyn Image . . 64

“ The Present Condition of English Song- Writing.” C.

Hubert H. Parry ....... 69

“ Marie at the Window.” A Song, composed by Arthur

Somervell .... To face page 70

“On Revisiting Lichfield Cathedral.” R. Garnett . . 71

“The New Reredos at St. Paul’s considered in its relation
to the whole design of that Cathedral.”
Herbert P. Horne ...... 72

The Initial Letters and Tail-pieces are from designs by
Herbert P. Horne.

Vault Collection

L. Tom Perry Special Collections
Harold B. Lee Library
Brigham Young University

. H7
no . 1 0
1888
April

BRIGHAM YOUNG UNIVERSITY

1197 23968 84

Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2019 with funding from
Brigham Young University

https://archive.org/details/centuryguildhob101888lond

A HOPE CAROL.

A night was near, a day was near,

Between a day and night

I heard sweet voices calling clear,

Calling me :

I heard a whirr of wing on wing,

But could not see the sight ;

I long to see my birds that sing,

I long to see.

Below the stars, beyond the moon,

Between the night and day

I heard a rising falling tune
Calling me :

I long to see the pipes and strings
Whereon such minstrels play ;

I long to see each face that sings,

I long to see.

To-day or may be not to-day,

To-night or not to-night,

All voices that command or pray
Calling me,

Shall kindle in my soul such fire
And in my eyes such light

That I shall see that heart’s desire
I long to see.

Christina G. Rossetti.

S MUSIC THE TYPE OR MEA¬
SURE OF ALL ART?

Mr. Matthew Arnold’s definition of Poetry
as “ at bottom a Criticism of Life,” insisted
somewhat too strenuously on the purely
intellectual and moral aspects of art. There
is a widely different way of regarding the
same subject-matter, which finds acceptance with many
able thinkers of the present time. This ignores the criti¬
cism of life altogether, and dwells with emphasis upon sen¬
suous presentation, emotional suggestion, and technical
perfection, as the central and essential qualities of art. In
order to steer a safe course between the Scylla of excessive
intellectuality, and the Charybdis of excessive sensuousness,
it will be well to examine what a delicate and philosophical
critic has published on this second theory of the arts. With
this object in view, I choose a paper by Mr. Walter Pater
on “The School of Giorgione.”1 The opinion that art has
a sphere independent of intellectual or ethical intention is
here advocated with lucidity, singular charm of style, and
characteristic reserve.

Mr. Pater opens the discussion by very justly condemning
the tendency of popular critics “ to regard all products of art
as various forms of poetry.” “ For this criticism,” he says,
“poetry, music, and painting are but translations into different
languages of one and the same fixed quantity of imaginative
thought, supplemented by certain technical qualities of
colour in painting, of sound in music, of rhythmical words
in poetry.” “ In this way,” he adds, “ the sensuous element
in art, and with it almost everything in art that is essentially
artistic, is made a matter of indifference.” He then pro¬
ceeds to point out that each of the fine arts has its own
sphere, its own untranslatable mode of expression, its own
way of reaching the imaginative reason through the senses,
its own special responsibilities to its material.

So far, every intelligent student of the subject will agree
with him. Nor will there be any substantial difference of

1 “ Fortnightly Review,” October, 1887. I should not have thought it proper
to deal with a single article of this kind, which, so far as I know, has not been
reprinted by Mr. Pater, unless the views here set forth were current among
persons worthy of respect.

opinion as to the second point on which he insists — namely,
that each of the arts, while pursuing its own object, and
obeying its own laws, may sometimes assimilate the quality
of a sister-art. This, adopting German phraseology, Mr.
Pater terms the Anders-streben of an art, or the reaching
forward from its own sphere toward the sphere of another
art. We are familiar with the thought that Greek dramatic
poetry borrowed something of its form from sculpture, and
that the Italian romantic epic was determined to a great
extent by the analogy of painting. Nor is it by any means
an innovation in criticism to refer all the artistic products of
a nation to some dominant fine art, for which that nation
possessed a special aptitude, and which consequently gave
colour and complexion to its whole aesthetical activity.
Accordingly, Mr. Pater, both in the doctrine of the indepen¬
dence of each art, and also in the doctrine of the Anders-
streben of one art toward another, advances nothing which
excites opposition.

At this point, however, he passes into a region of more
questionable speculation. Having rebuked popular criticism
for using poetry as the standard whereby to judge the arts,
he proceeds to make a similar use of music ; for he lays it
down that all the arts in common aspire “ towards the prin¬
ciple of music, music being the typical, or ideally consummate
art, the object of the great Anders-streben of all art, of all
that is artistic, or partakes of artistic qualities.”

The reason for this assertion is stated with precision : 1

“All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music.
For while in all other works of art it is possible to distinguish
the matter from the form, and the understanding can always
make this distinction, yet it is the constant effort of art to
obliterate it. That the mere matter of a poem, for instance,
its subject, its given incidents or situation ; that the mere
matter of a picture, the actual circumstances of an event, the
actual topography of a landscape, should be nothing without
the form, the spirit of the handling ; that this form, this
mode of handling, should become an end in itself, should
penetrate every part of the matter ; — this is what all art con¬
stantly strives after, and achieves in different degrees.”

1 “Fortnightly Review,” p. 528. The italics are Mr. Pater’s.

Having illustrated the meaning of this paragraph by
references to painting, poetry, furniture, dress, and the details
of daily intercourse, Mr. Pater proceeds as follows : — 1

“ Art, then, is thus always striving to be independent of
the mere intelligence, to become a matter of pure perception,
to get rid of its responsibilities to its subject or material ;
the ideal examples of poetry and painting being those in
which the constituent elements of the composition are so
welded together that the material or subject no longer strikes
the intellect only ; nor the form, the eye or ear only ; but
form and matter, in their union or identity, present one single
effect to the imaginative reason, that complex faculty for
which every thought and feeling is twin-born with its sensible
analogue or symbol.

“ It is the art of music which most completely realises this
artistic ideal, this perfect identification of form and matter,
this strange chemistry, uniting, in the integrity of pure light,
contrasted elements. In its ideal, consummate moments,
the end is not distinct from the means, the form from the
matter, the subject from the expression ; they inhere in and
completely saturate each other ; and to it, therefore, to the
condition of its perfect moments, all the arts may be sup¬
posed constantly to tend and aspire. Music, then, not poetry,
as is so often supposed, is the true type or measure of con¬
summate art. Therefore, although each art has its incom¬
municable element, its untranslatable order of impressions,
its unique mode of reaching the imaginative reason, yet the
arts may be represented as continually struggling after the
law or principle of music, to a condition which music
alone completely realises ; and one of the chief functions of
aesthetic criticism, dealing with the concrete products of
art, new or old, is to estimate the degree in which each of
those products approaches in this sense to musical law.”

If this means that art, as art, aspires toward a complete
absorption of the matter into the form — toward such a blend¬
ing of the animative thought or emotion with the embody¬
ing vehicle that the shape produced shall be the only right
and perfect manifestation of a spiritual content to the senses,
so that, while we contemplate the work, we cannot conceive
their separation — then in this view there is nothing either

1 “Fortnightly Review,” p. 530.

new or perilous. It was precisely this which constituted
the consummate excellence of Greek sculpture. The sculptor
found so apt a shape for the expression of ideal personality,
that his marble became an apocalypse of godhood. It was
precisely this, again, which made the poetry of Virgil artisti¬
cally perfect. In the words of the most eloquent of Virgil’s
panegyrists : “ What is meant by the vague praise bestowed
on Virgil’s unequalled style is practically this, that he has
been, perhaps, more successful than any other poet in fusing
together the expressed and the suggested emotion ; that he
has discovered the hidden music which can give to every
shade of feeling its distinction, its permanence, and its charm ;
that his thoughts seem to come to us on wings of melodies
prepared for them from the foundation of the world.”1

But it does not seem that Mr. Pater means this only. We
have the right to conclude from passages which may be
emphasised, that he has in view the more questionable notion
that fine arts in their most consummate moments all aspire
toward vagueness of intellectual intention — that a well-defined
subject in poetry and painting and sculpture is a hindrance
to artistic quality — that the lust of the eye or of the ear is of
more moment than the thought of the brain. Art, he says,
is “ always striving to be independent of the mere intelli¬
gence, to become a matter of pure perception, to get rid cf
its responsibilities to its subject or material.” “ Lyrical
poetry,” he says, “just because in it you are least able to
detach the matter from the form without a deduction of some¬
thing from that matter itself, is, at least artistically, the
highest and most complete form of poetry. And the very
perfection of such poetry often seems to depend in part on
a certain suppression or vagueness of mere subject , so that
the definite meaning almost expires , or reaches us through
ways not distinctly traceable by the understanding.” 2

This is ingenious ; and it cannot be denied that the theory
has a plausible appearance. Yet, were we to carry Mr. Pater’s
principles to their logical extremity, we should have to prefer
Pope’s Verses by a Person of Quality to the peroration of
the Dunciad, and a fine specimen of Japanese screen-

1 Essays, Classical, by F. W. H. Myers, p. 115.

2 “ Fortnightly Review,” p. 529. Here the italics are not Mr. Pater’s, but
mine.

painting to Turner’s Tdmdraire or Raphael’s School of
Athens.

So far as the art of poetry goes, he seems to overstate a
truth, which is finely and exactly expressed by Mr. Myers in
the essay on Virgil from which I have already quoted. The
passage is long ; but it puts so well the point which Mr.
Pater has perhaps exaggerated, regarding the importance
of the sensuous and suggestive elements in poetry, that
I venture to think my readers will be glad to be reminded
of it P

“ The range of human thoughts and emotions greatly
transcends the range of such symbols as man has invented to
express them ; and it becomes, therefore, the business of Art
to use these symbols in a double way. They must be used
for the direct representation of thought and feeling; but
they must also be combined by so subtle an imagination as
to suggest much which there is no means of directly express¬
ing. And this can be done ; for experience shows that it is
possible so to arrange forms, colours, and sounds as to stimu¬
late the imagination in a new and inexplicable way. This
power makes the painter’s art an imaginative as well as an imi¬
tative one ; and gives birth to the art of the musician, whose
symbols are hardly imitative at all, but express emotions
which, till music suggests them, have been not only unknown
but unimaginable. Poetry is both an imitative and an ima¬
ginative art. As a choice and condensed form of emotional
speech, it possesses the reality which depends on its directly
recalling our previous thoughts and feelings. But as a
system of rhythmical and melodious effects — not indebted
for their potency to their associated ideas alone — it appeals
also to that mysterious power by which mere arrangements of
sound can convey an emotion which no one could have pre¬
dicted beforehand, and which no known laws can explain.

“ And, indeed, in poetry of the first order, almost every
word (to use a mathematical metaphor) is raised to a higher
power. It continues to be an articulate sound and a logical
step in the argument ; but it becomes also a musical sound
and a centre of emotional force. It becomes a musical sound ;
— that is to say, its consonants and vowels are arranged to
bear a relation to the consonants and vowels near it, — a rela-

1 Essays, Classical, p. 113-115.

tion of which accent, quantity, rhyme, assonance, and allitera¬
tion are specialised forms, but which may be of a character
more subtle than any of these. And it becomes a centre of
emotional force ; that is to say, the complex associations
which it evokes modify the. associations evoked by other
words in the same passage in a way quite distinct from
grammatical or logical connection. The poet, therefore,
must avoid two opposite dangers. If he thinks too exclu¬
sively of the music and the colouring of his verses — of the
imaginative means of suggesting thought and feeling — what
he writes will lack reality and sense. But if he cares only
to communicate definite thought and feeling according to the
ordinary laws of eloquent speech, his verse is likely to be
deficient in magical and suggestive power.”

This is right. This makes equitable allowance for the
claims alike of the material and the form of art — the intel¬
lectual and emotional content, the sensuous and artificial
embodiment.

But to return to Mr. Pater. His doctrine that art is “ always
striving to be independent of the mere intelligence,” his
assertion that the perfection of lyrical poetry “ often seems to
depend in part on a certain suppression or vagueness of mere
subject,” contradict the utterances of the greatest craftsmen
in the several arts — Milton’s sublime passages on the function
of Poetry, Sidney’s and Shelley’s Defences of Poesy, Goethe’s
doctrine of “ the motive,” Rossetti’s canon that “ fundamental
brain-work” is the characteristic of all great art, Michel¬
angelo’s and Beethoven’s observations upon their own em¬
ployment of sculpture and music. Rigidly applied, his prin¬
ciples would tend to withdraw art from the sphere of
spirituality altogether. Yet, considered as paradoxes, they
have real value, inasmuch as they recall attention to the
sensuous side of art, and direct the mind from such
antagonistic paradoxes as the one propounded by Mr.
Matthew Arnold in his preface to Wordsworth.

It is difficult to see in what way Mr. Pater can evade the
strictures he has passed upon his brethren, the popular
critics. Whether a man selects poetry or selects music as
the “ true type or measure of consummate art,” to which “ in
common all the arts aspire,” will depend doubtless partly
upon personal susceptibilities, and partly upon the theory he

has formed of art in general. Both the popular critics and
Mr. Pater take up their position upon equally debatable
ground. The case stands thus. Mr. Pater is of opinion that
the best poetry is that in which there is the least appeal to
“ mere intelligence,” in which the verbal melody and the
suggestive way of handling it are more important than the
intellectual content. He thinks that the best pictures are
those in which the “ mere subject” is brought into the least
prominence. Holding these views, he selects music as the
“ true type and measure of consummate art.” Herein he is
consistent ; for music, by reason of its limitations, is the least
adapted of all arts for the expression of an intellectual
content. The popular critic, on the other hand, is of opinion
that the best poetry is that which has the clearest, the most
human, and the most impressive motive. He thinks that the
best pictures are those which, beside being delightful by
their drawing and colour, give food for meditation and appeal
to mental faculty. Holding these views, he selects poetry
as the “ true type and measure of consummate art.” Herein
he too is consistent ; for poetry, by reason of its limitations,
is the best adapted of all arts for appealing to intelligence
and embodying motives with lucidity.

Mr. Pater and the popular critic are equally right or equally
wrong. We are, in fact, confronting two different concep¬
tions of art, each of which is partial and one-sided, because
the one insists too strongly on the sensuous form, the other
on the mental stuff, of art.

Supposing a man does not accept Mr. Pater’s doctrine ;
supposing he starts from another point of view, and demands
some defined conception in a work of art as well as a sen¬
suous appeal to our imaginative reason ; supposing he re¬
gards art in its highest manifestation as a mode of utterance
for what is spiritual in man, as a language for communi¬
cating the ideal world of thought and feeling in sensible
form ; then he will be tempted to select not music but poetry
as his type and measure. Thus it is manifest that critics
who refer to the standard of poetry, and critics' who refer to
the standard of music, differ in this mainly that they hold
divergent theories regarding the function of art in general.

The debatable point for consideration is whether either
the popular critic rebuked by Mr. Pater or Mr. Pater him-

self can legitimately choose one of the arts as the “ type
and measure ” for the rest. I maintain that both are ex¬
pressing certain personal predilections, whereby the abiding
relations of the arts run some risk of being overlooked.
What the matter really comes to is this : while the one
proclaims his preference for sensuous results, the other pro¬
claims a preference for defined intelligible content. Each
does violence by his selection to one or other of the arts.
The critic who demands a meaning at any cost, will find it
hard to account for his appreciation of music or of archi¬
tecture. Mr. Pater, in order to complete his theory, is
forced to depreciate the most sublime and powerful master¬
pieces of poetry. In his view drama and epic doff* their
caps before a song, in which verbal melody and the com¬
munication of a mood usurp upon invention, passion, cere¬
bration, definite meaning.

Just as the subjectivity of any age or nation erects one
art into the measure of the rest, so the subjectivity of a
particular critic will induce him to choose poetry or music,
or it may be sculpture, as his standard. The fact remains
that each art possesses its own strength and its own weak¬
ness, and that no one of the arts, singly and by itself,
achieves the whole purpose of art. That purpose is to
express the content of human thought and feeling in sen¬
suously beautiful form by means of various vehicles, impos¬
ing various restrictions, and implying various methods of
employment. If we seek the maximum of intelligibility,
we find it in poetry ; but at the same time we have here the
minimum of immediate effect upon the senses. If we seek
the maximum of sensuous effect, we find it in music ; but
at the same time we have here the minimum of appeal to
intelligence. Architecture, in its inability to express definite
ideas, stands next to music ; but its sensuous influence
upon the mind is feebler. As a compensation, it possesses
the privilege of permanence, of solidity, of impressive
magnitude, of undefinable but wonder-waking symbolism.
Sculpture owes its power to the complete and concrete pre¬
sentation of human form, to the perfect incarnation of ideas
in substantial shapes of bronze or stone, on which light and
shadows from the skies can fall : this it alone of all the arts
displays. It has affinities with architecture on the one

49 h

hand, owing to the material it uses, and to poetry on the
other, owing to the intelligibility of its motives. Painting
is remote from architecture ; but holds a place where sculp¬
ture, poetry, and music let their powers be felt. Though
dependent on design, it can tell a story better than sculp¬
ture ; and in this respect painting more nearly approaches
poetry. It can communicate a mood without relying upon
definite or strictly intelligible motives ; in this respect it
borders upon music. Of all the arts painting is the most
flexible, the most mimetic, the most illusory. It cannot
satisfy our understanding like poetry ; it cannot flood our
souls with the same noble sensuous joy as music ; it cannot
present such perfect and full shapes as sculpture ; it cannot
affect us with the sense of stability or with the mysterious
suggestions which belong to architecture. But it partakes
of all the other arts through its speciality of surface-delinea¬
tion, and adds its own delightful gift of colour, second in
sensuous potency only to sound.

Such is the prism of the arts ; each distinct, but homo¬
geneous, and tinctured at their edges with hues borrowed
from the sister-arts. Their differences derive from the
several vehicles they are bound to employ. Their unity is
the spiritual substance which they express in common.
Abstract beauty, the IS ex rod xxXou, is one and indivisible.
But the concrete shapes which manifest this beauty, decom¬
pose it, just as the prism analyses white light into colours.
Multae terricolis linguae coelestibus una.

It is by virtue of this separateness and by virtue of these
sympathies that we are justified in calling the poetry of
Sophocles or Landor, the painting of Michaelangelo or
Mantegna, the music of Gluck or Cherubini, sculpturesque;
Lorenzetti’s frescoes and Dantes Paradiso, architectural ;
Tintoretto’s Crucifixion and the Genius of the Vatican,
poetical; Shelley’s lyrics in Prometheus Unbound and
Titian’s Three Ages, musical ; the fagade of the Certosa at
Pavia, pictorial ; and so forth, as suggestion and association
lead us.

But let it be remembered that this discrimination of an
Anders-streben in the arts, is after all but fanciful. It is
at best a way of expressing our sense of something subjec¬
tive in the styles of artists or of epochs, not of something

in the arts themselves. Let it be still more deeply remem¬
bered that if we fix upon any one art as the type and
measure for the rest, we are either indulging a personal
partiality, or else uttering an arbitrary, and therefore incon¬
clusive, aesthetical hypothesis. The main fact to bear steadily
in mind is that beauty is the sensuous manifestation of the
idea — that is, of the spiritual element in man and in the
world — and that the arts, each in its own way, conveys this
beauty to our percipient self. We have to abstain on the
one hand from any theory which emphasizes the didactic
function of art, and on the other from any theory, however
plausible, which diverts attention from the one cardinal
truth : namely, that fine and liberal art, as distinguished
from mechanical art or the arts of the kitchen and millinery,
exists for the embodiment of thought and emotion in forms
of various delightfulness, appealing to what Mr. Pater has
well called the imaginative reason, that complex faculty
which is neither mere understanding nor mere sense, by
means of divers sensuous suggestions, and several modes of
concrete presentation. John Addington Symonds.

AMATA LOQUITUR:

Again, O Christ, the bell at Llanagryn !

I heard aright? No, no ! the hills are high,

Too high for any wind of earth to bear

The sound across the rush-pools on the heights,

The circle of bleached stones, the early way,

The fallen cromlechs, and the miles of waste :

It cannot be. Yet, hush ! — again, twice, thrice.
Fool, that I am ! my conscience ’s in my ears ;

It is not full time for the Angelus,

It is not six. And yet ’twas thus I heard
The very sound on Pensarn that foul night
Which makes all days and nights, that follow it,
Terrible as itself ; for on that night
I bade Thwane come. Twas he alone of man
Or living thing I hated. Well he knew
I loved but Jeffrey, yet he asked my love ;

Nor asked it only, but he dogged my steps
And daily made unholy taunts, till he
Seemed like a storm of slander o’er our heads,
Ready to burst, and with a flood of lies
Deluge my love for — nay, ’twas more than love, —
Myself in Jeffrey. Therefore hour by hour
A swift consuming hatred grew in me,

A hatred of his looks, his ways, his words,

Unbearable and restless, and became

Stronger than Love, Love that is strong as Death.

And so I said to him, “ Come, Thwane, to-night

By Ave-bell at nightfall (for it was

Well in the waning of the year) ; come, Thwane,

To Merlin’s seat on Pensarn, half-way up

That silent mountain. Know you it ? It hangs

Over the ocean towards Anglesea.”

And he replied, “ I know it.” And I said,

“ Thwane, I will give until you ask no more.”

Then all that afternoon it seemed the sun
Scarce journied in the heavens, but held the day
The space of many days ; and when at length
He past into the sea the hurrying night

Dropt oversoon, like Death, upon the land
And all the ocean. So in haste I sped
Up Pensarn till I reached old Merlin’s seat,

And crouched beside it. Then I heard him come
Over the gorse and bracken ; and I said
Within myself, “ ’Tis early that he comes.”

And when he came I feigned a stricken voice,

“ Hush ! speak not for God’s sake; someone is near.
And this I feigned, because I inly feared
That if I heard some word that Jeffrey used
Fall from his lips, it might abate my purpose ;

So whispered, “ Hush ! ” Nor did I look on him,
Lest seeing he was flesh and blood as we,

I should forget my hatred ; so I clenched
My eyes, and drove my soul into my hands
And all my fingers : and I spoke again,

“ The night is cold and biting, you shall have
My wimple for a neckcloth.” And undid
Quickly my linen wimple from my face
And made a neckcloth. He was looking round,

I think, into the night, perchance to find
The feigned intruder, and scarce heeded he
My words : yet I stayed not for yea or nay,

But threw my linen wimple round his throat
And tied it thus, and thus, and thus ; and he
Sank like a sleeping child, down at my feet.

Then knew I I had given as I said,

Nor should he ask again ; and so I laughed,

And all the hill-side rang out with my laugh.

Whether it was that I had tied too well
The neckcloth I had made him ; or that the night
Grew darker then, so that I could not see
How I had tied the knot ; yet this I know,

That, fumbling at the wimple, I had bowed
Myself over his body, and my thoughts
Presently wandered from my fingers, on,

On till I found my eyes held by his eyes.

It was not all at once I knew the truth.

It came not as the bell’s sound came just now,

Suddenly, in an instant. It dawned, dawned
Mysteriously and terribly by degrees
Upon my half-numbed sense. It seemed as though
Someone had told it me again, again ;

And my poor ears had heard again, again,

What had been told me, but my wretched heart
Dared not to understand it. Yet, at last,

The iron truth broke on me that not Thwane,

Not Thwane — ’twas Jeffrey ! Then it was I heard
The Angelus ring out from Llanagryn.

It must have been the loosening of the knot
That did release the little dregs of life
From out his lips ; for suddenly I caught
A struggling word, as yet I knelt by him
Bowed, like a stone and speechless. Why did he
Speak as he did ? He should have cursed me there,
There where I knelt ! But no, ’twas not to be ;

For this poor heart of grief too soon divined,

From half-said words and broken sentences,

As life came back in waves to ebb again,

Ebb unto death, how he had heard it tost,

For gossip ’twixt the serfs, that I that night
Should meet with Thwane at some appointed place.
But here his soul, as if’t had been aware,

Endeavour as it might, it could but speak
Once and begone, shook like a winter leaf
Within its fair-made house of flesh ; and he
Strained all his passing breath into these words,
Crying, “ I thought to follow unobserved
And find the truth ; now have I found the truth.
’Twas but a snare that you might strangle me !

But I forgive you.” Then the thin life went
Up from him like a bubble in a stream.

Whereat my tongue was loosened, and I poured
The bitter, bitter truth into his ears
In vain, for he was dead and heard me not.

But Thou, Christ, Who canst disabuse the soul,
Wilt Thou permit him in the dismal grave
To say unto his ever-breaking heart,

“ Woe ! woe ! ’twas but a snare to strangle me I ”

Still did I pour into his ruthless ears
My own exceeding love for him, my hate
Of Thwane ; my love, my fear, and my revenge ;
Until I knew there stood above my head
A shadow of darkness. And I raised my eyes,

And it was Thwane ; and Thwane said, “ Even thus
You would have sated me.” And so I knew
That nothing of this grief was hid from him.

And Thwane went on, “Now shall you come with me,
Into a place where we shall not be found,

And do my bidding. Come, or I will go
To Hendre telling all that I have seen.”

Then I rose up, and with my finger-tips

Smote him upon the mouth, and answered, “ Go ! ”

Yet neither did he go, nor did he make

Me any answer ; but from Jeffrey’s neck

He took my wimple, and he bound instead

His leathern girdle, and he gave to me

My wimple, crying, “ Haste, or I will do

More evil to you than you would. Haste, get

To Hendre, and keep silence ; for ’t shall be,

When they shall find my girdle at his throat,

I shall have past into another land
And in no place be found. Then will they say
Jeffrey by Thwane was killed ; but you shall keep
The secret of this evil in your heart,

And day by day its weight shall grow on you,

Till life become as grievous to be borne
As love was sweet.”

Then thought I, “ I will go
Swiftly to Hendre, and arouse the serfs ;

And they will overtake him on the hills,

And he will suffer what my hate of him
Has brought to pass.” So I, without a word,

Turned like a hind to Hendre, and I ran
Into the Hall dishevelled, and in my hand
My wimple, and a lie upon my lips,

Crying, “ Lo ! I was walking by the beach
And heard a shriek as of a murdered man
Come from the hills towards Pensarn ! ”

Then they rose,

Each knight and serf of Hendre, and they searched
Height after height, even until they came
To Cader Idris ; yet they found no man,

But only one chill body ; and round the neck
Thwane’s leathern girdle wound. And so it was,

As he had said, they called him murderer.

But I still keep the secret of these things
Deep in my heart, untold to any man,

For none may understand it. So the pain
Of these things grows with me, grows for I hear
The daily tattle call him murderer,

Who only loved — Loved? Nay, speak Christ! Thou
knowest,

Had I but loved as he, Jeffrey had lived.

Herbert P. Horne.

gflate ’ftom an u:mulri5 Jngtjs/i'ma'
ginibus/ac Ominefcripturc-r
croat toctozdauctodtartbus
ad fcftroitatu cogracrv
dam Dccozamm:
nngrimetpu

"fc.

N SOME OLD TITLE-PAGES,
WITH A SKETCH OF THEIR
ORIGIN, AND SOME SUGGES¬
TIONS FOR THE IMPROVE¬
MENT OF MODERN ONES.

In the year 1650 was born John Bag-
ford. His father apprenticed him to a
shoemaker, but Nature had intended him to be the minister
and scourge of bookmen, and to this end it was necessary
for him to leave his last and seek his living as a caterer for
the libraries of great men. He served his patrons honestly
and well. His most embittered biographers do justice to
the untiring zeal which made him take walking tours
through Holland and Germany in search of bargains, and
so little profit did he make from his business that it was
only a nomination to the Charterhouse that saved his old
age from penury. He was one of the resuscitators of the
Society of Antiquaries ; he made a famous collection of old
ballads ; and his contemporaries, when he died in 1716, paid
elaborate compliments to his memory. Yet that memory
has ever since been execrated, and the justice of the execra¬
tion is indisputable. When the name of John Bagford is
mentioned book-lovers hiss through their teeth the word
Biblioclast, and in that mysterious expression lies the secret
of his misdoing. “ He spent his life,” says his latest biogra¬
pher with terrible judiciality, “ in collecting materials for a
history of printing which he was quite incompetent to
write.” His materials were title-pages, and it is probably a
moderate estimate which places the number of them at
about five-and-twenty thousand. About ten thousand of
these are pasted into nine large folio volumes which now
belong to the Department of Printed Books in the British
Museum ; the rest form part of the one hundred and ninety-
eight volumes of his Remains in the Harleian Collection
in the Department of Manuscripts of the same institution.
Specimens of Chinese paper, fragments of rare bindings,
engravings, initial letters, publishers’ marks, literary corre¬
spondence, lives of the early English printers in Bagford’s
manuscript, make up the other volumes of this melancholy,
yet profoundly interesting, collection ; and if there be any
reader of this paper possessed of a little learned leisure, it

57 1

is suggested to him that he might employ it to many worse
purposes, than in working at this vast collection, and ascer¬
taining if no useful results can be extracted from the
materials so laboriously amassed. The title-pages, with
which we are here concerned, have already been to a con¬
siderable extent arranged in rough chronological order under
the towns at which they were printed. A glance through
the earlier volumes may incline the student to take a some¬
what lenient view of Bagford’s misdoings. A book is always
a book, but if any are to be selected for mutilation it would
be hard to make a better choice than Dutch and German
works of theology. Even the first volume of English relics
awakes nothing ferocious in the way of indignation, though
it contains spoils from Florio’s “ Montaigne,” from Withers’
“ Fidelia,” from Cotgrave’s Dictionary, and from the
“ Declaration of Popish Imposture,” this last a work which
we know that Shakespeare read, and haply in this very copy.
But further investigation discloses whole volumes of the
charming title-pages of Jean Petit and of our own special
favourites the Juntas; even Wynkyn de Worde is not
sacred from this destroyer, and as we turn the pages we
tremble with mingled fear and hope lest we should light
upon the colophon of a Caxton. To say this is to acquiesce
in the strongest denunciations that have been launched at
Bagford’s unlucky head, and there is nothing left but a
mournful wonder that in days when old books were so
cheap that a needy book-agent could afford to deal as he
would with more than twenty thousand of them, such price¬
less opportunities should have been used for destruction
rather than preservation.

The earliest title-page which we have noted in Bagford’s
collection is dated 1509, or just half a century after Fust
and Scheffer set up their press. As is well known, in the
evolution of the printed book from the manuscript, the title-
page was the final complement. Not that all manuscripts
are destitute of everything in the shape of a page specially
set apart for the title of the work, but that the bibliographer
demands from the title-page proper that it should contain
not only the name of the book, but that of its printer or
publisher, the town at which it is issued, and the date of
publication ; information which in early books was reserved

exclusively for the colophon. In the case, indeed, of very
early books, without the colophon all but the most learned
readers would be hopelessly at sea. Thus, when we open a
book printed by Nicholas Jenson we find at the top of the
first page : [C]um multi ex Romanis etiam consularis digni¬
tatis uiri, &c. &c., and are plunged at once into a lengthy
historical work, which we may or may not be able to identify
for ourselves. But when we turn to the end of the volume
a double explanation is offered us ; the first, according to a
pleasant old custom, in verse, the second in prose.

Historias ueteres peregrinaque gesta reuoluo
Iustinus, lege me : sum trogus ipse breuis.

Me gallus ueneta Ienson Nicolaus in urbe
Formauit Mauro principe Christophoro.

Justini historici clarissimi in Trogi Pompeii historias liber
xliiii. feliciter explicit mcccclxx. From this we learn that
the work is the abridgment by Justinus of the Histories of
Trogus Pompeius, and that it was printed in Venice by
Nicolas Jenson, a Frenchman, in the year 1470, when
Cristoforo Mauro was doge. Here we have information in
plenty, but to be obliged to turn to the end of a book to
know its subject was intolerable, and was soon felt to be so.
Even in very early books we sometimes find the title printed
like a label on the first leaf, but the commonest plan was to
head the first printed leaf with an explanation of the nature
and contents of the book. This time we will take our
example from a work printed by our own William Caxton
in 1483. Here the first leaf is blank, the second has at its
head : “ This book is intytled the pilgremage of the sowle,
translated out of Frensshe in to Englysshe. Which book
is ful of deuoute maters touchynge the sowle, and many
questyons assoyled to cause a man to lyue the better in this
world, And it conteyneth fyue bookes, as it appereth
herafter by Chapytres.” At the end of the work this infor¬
mation is repeated, and the bibliographer also is given the
details which he desires. Thus the colophon runs : “ Here
endeth the dreme of pylgremage of the soule translated oute
of Frensshe in to Englysshe, With somewhat of addicion,
the yere of oure lord mcccc. & thyrten and endeth in the

vigyle of Seynt Bartholomew. Emprynted at Westmestre
by William Caxton and fynysshed the sixth day of Juyn
the yere of our lord mcccclxxxiii. and the first yere of the
regne of Kynge Edward the fyfthe.” On the verso of the
first leaf of the British Museum copy of this Caxton the
short title of the book is written in manuscript, and it is
probable that the slow growth of the title-page is best to be
explained by that same humility before the ornate and
gorgeous flourishes of the scribe, which caused the early
printers to leave blanks for the initial letters and chapter-
marks to be filled in by hand. But as printers grew in
pride they scorned dependence on any but themselves, and
from 1490 onwards the appearance of the short title of the
work on the first leaf begins to be the rule. Thus, in
Vdrard’s edition of the French work from which Caxton’s is
translated the title-page reads: “Le pelerinaige de lame,” and
so with many other of his works. In one instance as early
as 1493 the place of imprint is already added to the title-
page, which runs : “ Des deux amans translate de latin en
fracois et imprime a paris nouuellement.” This, however, is
an exception, and down to the end of the fifteenth century
what we may call the label title-page continues to be the
rule, but occasionally embellished, sometimes by a printer’s
emblem, sometimes by an ornamental wood-cut.

To the two different methods of embellishment indicated
in the last paragraph, the right-thinking book-lover will
attach very different values. Both in Italy and France the
addition of an ornamental wood-cut has produced some very
beautiful title-pages. One of these is given as an illustra¬
tion to this article, partly for its intrinsic beauty, partly
as a protest against the prevalent idea that the only pos¬
sible illustration to a title-page is a small steel-engraved
vignette placed in the middle of the page. But though
wood-cuts, if in themselves beautiful and in due relation
to the subject of the work, form a very delightful embellish¬
ment, it is evident that they will vary in goodness with
the condition of arts with which printers have nothing
to do, that they form a serious addition to the cost of pro¬
duction, and also are incompatible with the presence of any
but the least pretentious of publishers’ or printers’ devices.
These last, on the other hand, are thoroughly in place on

CIMHAIKIOY HerAAOY AIAACKAAOY
'YflOMNHMAGlC TAC AGKAKATH-
fOFIAC TOY AFICTOT6AOYC -

every title-page ; they form an item of expenditure which
need only be incurred once, and with the scores of good
examples from which it is open to modern publishers to
borrow, it can only be a certain perversity which even in
the most degraded state of art can fail in securing a reason¬
ably good one. The addition of the publishers device to
every book which is considered worth decent paper and
decent print, is thus the first of the few suggestions which it
is part of the design of this article to offer. The splendid
device of Nikolaos Blastos (1499), which we give as one of
our illustrations, errs indeed on the side of excess, since
it dwarfs the title of the book into insignificance ; but
this makes it only the better example of the fearlessness
of the old printers in their employment of this form of
ornament.

Of the last stage in the evolution of the title-page little
need be said. By the addition of the publisher’s device the
contemporary book-lover was informed both of the publisher
and the place of imprint, and to this day the title-pages of
the books of certain firms, who may have their own reasons
for omitting the year of publication, tell their purchasers no
more than this. Throughout the sixteenth century the use
of colophons continued general, and during the years 1510-
1540, while the full title-page was growing up, the amount
of information repeated from the colophon is very arbitrary,
consisting sometimes of date and place, sometimes of place
and publisher’s name, sometimes of publisher’s name and
date. By 1540 the full title-page had become the rule, and
it is sad to have to state that the results of this laborious
growth, especially in England and Germany, were singu¬
larly hideous, and became increasingly so during the next
century. The causes or symptoms of this decadence may be
reduced to three heads : (1) the disuse or decreased impor¬
tance of the publisher’s device, owing to the presence on the
title-page of the imprint previously only given in the
colophon ; (2) the desire to state too much ; (3) the desire to
emphasize certain words in the title, which gradually degene¬
rated into an inane ambition on the part of the printer to
show off the multiplicity of his types. On the second and
third of these causes it is necessary to say a few words.
The earliest titles were as a rule quite short, and readers

were left to discover the names sometimes of authors, and
almost invariably of editors and translators, from prefatory
or commendatory epistles. But as editions multiplied such
information as this had necessarily * to be placed on the
forefront of the book, and soon we have elaborate explana¬
tions of how commentator B has improved upon the
labours of commentator A, and how everything has been
‘ diligentissime castigatum ’ and is now ‘ multo quam antea
accuratius.’ The habit of ‘ book-building ’ also soon came
into existence, and the problem had to be faced of duly
informing purchasers of the contents of a volume made up
of several parts, each by a different author. Two Aldine
title-pages may serve as examples of how the elder printers
met this difficulty of long titles. ‘ In hoc libro haec con¬
tinents’ runs the head-line of a title-page 1495; and
then follow in eight successive paragraphs, ‘ Constantin i
Lascaris Erotemata cu interpretatione latina,” and a list
of seven other works. Again, in a Horace of 1519 the
title “ Q. Horatii Flacci Poemata Omnia” in large type,
is followed by a long list of editors, index-makers, etc.,
printed in small italics arranged triangularly. In both
cases the title-page keeps its antique massive appearance,
while full information is given with all possible clearness.
But such simplicity was not to the taste of later printers,
and the titles of similarly composed books are soon spread
over the whole page, with a painful repetition of every pos¬
sible synonym for the phrase ‘To which is added.’ To
further assist the reader in detecting the merits of the book
offered for sale, the important words in the title were now
brought into prominence by the use of different types, or by
the interchange of red and black ink. These alterations
made woful havoc with the beauties which had characterized
the old title-pages, but at least they were prompted by a
reasonable aim, and were, therefore, to be excused, if
regretted. But with the continued decadence of the art of
printing, all method was lost in the madness which seized
on those responsible for sixteenth- and seventeenth-century
title-pages. When red ink was used at all it appeared in
alternate lines with black ; the size of types was regulated
sometimes by a desire to begin with the largest, at others
without even this show of reason. In an edition of “A/

Second/ part of Essayes/ by Sir W. Cornwallis,” the word
‘ Second ’ is twice the size of any other ; so in the title-
page of ‘ Certaine Miscellany works of the Right Honour¬
able Francis, Lo. Verulam, Viscount St. Albans,’ the
words ‘ The Right Honourable ’ are large enough to swallow
all the rest. Along with these absurdities another custom
may be mentioned by which, the necessity of a multiplicity
of types being regarded as over-riding the requirements of
sense, one half of a word would often be printed in large
type, the other in small. Examples of this arrangement
maybe found in the advertising columns of most newspapers,
and therefore need not be given here.

The above brief summary of the misdoings of Elizabethan
printers justifies some measure of congratulation that at
least in this respect we are better than our fathers. But the
repentance of modern printers and publishers is marked by
much timidity. The merits of the old title-pages may be sum¬
marized as consisting in : (i) the quaintness and beauty of
their printer’s emblems ; (2) the restriction of the number of
types to a minimum, which usually allowed only one, and
seldom more than two ; (3) the massive arrangement of
these types either in rectangles like those now used in this
magazine, or triangles, as in our Junta illustration ; (4) the
skilful use of red ink. During the last few years our leading
publishers have revived the use of emblems, but with an
obvious alarm lest they should appear too conspicuous on
the title-page. The multiplicity of types continues an evil.
A book published the other day, and printed by one of the
best firms of printers, has no less than twelve varieties on
its title-page, and six or seven are not an uncommon number.
The massive arrangement of the words of the title has ap¬
peared not only in this magazine, and in the publications
of the Villon Society, but even in some stray volumes of
shilling reprints. As for red ink, everybody uses it, but
alas, without much discretion. To fall into a form of expres¬
sion which has closed many a preface : if the beauty of our
illustration shall persuade but a single publisher to mass all
his red (N.B. not pink) in one portion of the title-page, and
leave the rest in the simplicity of sables, “this article will
not have been written in vain.” Alfred W. Pollard.

N THE DAYS OF THE PHILI¬
STINES.

A friend of mine was shewing me the
other day some charming verses, which
he had just finished ; and their moral,
certainly, was not less excellent than their
rhythm. Why should we lament Greek
Helen, they said, and those wonderful loves of Horace and
Catullus ? If only we have eyes to see, and will keep them
open, in London we shall meet with ladies as beautiful as
they were, and our experiences may prove as romantic as ever
the most poetical spirit can wish.

So Lawrence Burton, the artist, seems to have found.
His twelve-month’s worship of Ethel Calderon grows deeper
day by day. That her beauty has taken possession of him,
anybody who calls him friend, and watches the develop¬
ment of his work, may see easily enough. Not that
Lawrence raves about her, or pesters his acquaintance with
sonnets written to her eyes and hair : but sometimes in the
confidence of an evening’s smoke together our talk has fallen
upon Ethel : and then one may learn what she is to him by
hints assuredly significant ; while in the faces and figures of
his drawings we are struck by perpetual reminiscences,
consciously and unconsciously recorded, of the girl’s curious
beauty.

Yet, would everybody be charmed by her, or even allow
that she was beautiful ? Let me try and draw you a sketch
of the young lady, that held out her hand to me with just
the slightest smile, when one day a few months since
Lawrence was good enough to introduce us. Tall, and
singularly slight in figure, she was dressed in a plain, dark-
blue serge, that fitted closely ; and her hat of the same
material was trimmed with dark blue ribbon. The effect of
such austere adornment was certainly to emphasize both her
features and the finely curved lines of her figure. The dark-
brown eyes, as you first met her, were what struck you at
once : they appeared even extraordinarily large : but almost
immediately, as she kept looking out on you frankly with
them, you felt that this appearance of largeness was not
wholly dependent upon actual size, but upon the iris and the
pupil being almost of a single shade, recalling to you irre-

sistibly the blank, patient, pathetic look of some beautiful
animals. Above them the brow sloped back with the subtle
curve, which characterizes the heads of Hera or Athene on
ancient coins ; the low, white brdw, passing into delicate
gray beneath a cluster of little, brown curls, which just
showed themselves from under the blue serge of her simple
hat. It was not of a Greek, however, that the girl’s slightly
aquiline nose reminded you, but of a Florentine relief of the
Renaissance : the sensitive curl of the nostril leading you,
as by an artistically considered transition of Nature herself,
on to the wide and perfectly struck curve of her full, ripely-
coloured lips : the full brown of the large eyes, the full red¬
ness of the large mouth, being at once, and almost weirdly,
emphasized against the general paleness of the flesh. The
whole head was small, and set daintily forward on a long,
slender neck. Donatello would have seized on such a model
at once. With what loving subtlety would his delicate fingers
have left us a portrait of her to wonder at in the low,
marble relief! I think he would have altered little : I think
he would have recognized a “subject made,” as if by an
immediate providence, “ to his hand.”

When Burton first came face to face with Ethel Calderon,
she was quietly strolling up and down one spring evening, to
the strains of that mysterious music of a valse, which, how¬
ever faulty may be the execution of the orchestra, is always
irresistibly seductive. Their eyes met full : but they did
not speak, or even smile. Physically they did not either of
them pause for the infinitesimal fraction of a moment. But
the delicate, intimate affinities of Love are not necessarily
dependent upon conditions of time or touch : and after
staying in the crowd a minute or two longer, as it were for
the mere purpose of recovering himself, Lawrence walked
out into the sharp April air, possessed. In his diary for
that evening there is a short, perfervid entry. It is partly a
cry of pain, a cry certainly of wonder ; the cry as of a man,
who has been wandering about, not aimlessly, but with a
dread upon him that this wandering may prove aimless after
all in the end ; and who then comes suddenly full on his
dream and desire there actually before him. In a moment
there is a sense of God,' and he is down upon his knees very
humbly, and in thanksgiving.

I have hinted that Burton was not a man to carry his
heart upon his sleeve. His most intimate friends did not
immediately recognize by any word or manner of his the
visitation of this new experience. His tall, powerful figure
moved easily amongst us as usual. If anything, his careful
dress was a little more careful ; his grave face, and quiet
behaviour, a little more grave and inward : as one thinks
now, a sort of silence hung about him, such as becomes a
man in some sacred spot full of subduing yet incentive
influences. But this change, quite real certainly, was out¬
wardly so slight, that, though now we can recall it, at the
moment it passed amongst us unobserved. For Burton
himself, however, the heavens and the earth had opened
their secrets : and in the centre of a new world of things
stood the Lady, across whom Love had brought him that
evening, transfiguring its objects and its aims, and inducing in
him strange, new fancies, and determinations towards them.

But the nature of every real artist is sensuous : it is not
content with the contemplation of life’s secrets as ideas, but
desires veritably to touch and handle them. And so it was
inevitable, that Lawrence Burton should set himself to meet
Miss Calderon, to become acquainted with her, to let her
know, whatever might be the manner of her accepting the
intelligence, what a significance her existence had for him.
And assuredly in this case there did not seem to be those
initial difficulties, with which the conventionalisms of society
hedge around the first advances of an acquaintance. The
difficulties were rather such as sprang from Burton’s own
self-consciousness, from his overstrained fear of being
jestingly, even, as was not at least impossible, with some
coarseness, repelled ; or of a shocking disappointment,
supposing the feelings or the words of the girl should not
be such as were the proper complement of her physical
beauty. For many days together he sought her at the time, and
in the places, that he fancied were likely again to bring them
face to face. Yet face to face they came more than once, *
and passed one another by. The man’s sensitive horror of
repulse or of disappointment rendered him quite foolishly
vacillating ; as it is with us when we fear to move close up
to a beautiful bird or butterfly, lest we should frighten the
fairness away, and wholly lose it.

Their acquaintance came of course finally, came one
evening in a manner almost as sudden as was that of the first
meeting. Burton’s eyes met Ethel’s not for the first or the
second time; and the faint, nervous smile, which gathered up
her lips into an even more beautiful curve, was surely Love’s
own call of recognition and acceptance. As he raised his
hat and spoke to her, his first sensation was one of wonder
as to what it was, that could have kept them so long apart :
his own sister seemed scarcely better known to him ; nor
was his behaviour towards Ethel, unspoiled by any taint of
shyness, less easy than would have been natural in a brother.
Miss Calderon lived down by the river at Chelsea : and in
a week’s time Lawrence Burton might have been found there
spending the afternoon with her, and her friend, Catarina ;
with a little pencil sketch of that exquisite renaissance head
in his pocket-book, drawn hastily, but not without care, in
the half-hour that they had been alone together, before after¬
noon tea came in, and they could be alone no longer.

A week, a month, three months passed, and Burton seldom
visited, or even saw, Ethel. The dear child had grown
more dear to him ; but he doubted seriously, whether on her
part she had any care for his existence. Moreover there was
this characteristic scrupulosity about the way of his affection
for the girl, that, whenever he called at Chelsea, or went
wandering to meet her elsewhere, he would not willingly
present himself without some sweet sacrament, as he un¬
affectedly held it to be, of his devotion ; at the least a
daintily-tied box of sweetmeats ; a soft, silk handkerchief to
guard the slim neck and lie amid the warmth of the low
bosom ; or, more frequently, a delicately arranged bunch of
choice and fragrant flowers, with their natural leaves, which
he would pin against the white frills of her tightly-fitting
dress, as a piece of positive colour, that made even more
seductive the pearl tints of her throat and shell-like ear; and
over which, as he left them there, his kiss, while their lips
pressed full on one another, was to his fancy a religious,
consecrating ceremony. But choice offerings, however
small, selected here and there with no little thought as
to their appropriateness, we cannot lay frequently at the
shrines of our devotion without a sensible drain on our
resources : and Burton’s resources were far from inex-

haustible. He forced himself therefore into a state of
self-denial, and tried hard to be content with memories and
dreams. At the end of three months’ time he went for a
long-promised visit into the country. It would have been
different, had he been certain of any desire on Ethel’s part
for his companionship ; had his natural over-sensitiveness
allowed him even a serious fancy, that such a desire might
gradually be possible for her. But without certainty, and
except under exciting, evanescent conditions of emotion
nearly without hope, he kept himself steadily out of her way.

On the afternoon that he returned home he found awaiting
him a letter, directed in a strange hand. Opening it he
found to his astonishment that it came from Catarina : its
date was ten days old : by some stupid mistake it had never
been forwarded to him. “ Ethel has been very ill, almost
dead,” she wrote. “ She has asked me to send this, and beg
you to come and see her.”

In as short a time as a hansom could take him in
Lawrence stood by the dear girl’s bed. “ How cruel you
must have thought me,” he cried, “ I have been away : only
this moment has the letter reached me.” “ I knew; I knew
it must be so,” Ethel quietly answered. A faint perfume of
violets filled the warm, dimly-lighted room. “ My child,”
he said very softly, “ my child ! ” And as their lips met and
clung to one another in a long silence, I think that Hope was
born into Lawrence Burton’s life. Selwyn Image.

HE PRESENT CONDITION OF
ENGLISH SONG-WRITING.

Songs are more generally diffused than
any other form of Musical Art, and
penetrate into the domestic privacy of
more homes than any other kind of
Music whatever ; and consequently the
condition of that branch of Art is a sort of barometer for
the state of public taste in its widest sense. In a country
where the most successful songs show delicacy and refine¬
ment of thought, neatness of treatment, rhythmic and con¬
structive interest, genuine sentiment and musical variety,
taste may be expected to be healthy and musical intelligence
high ; and in proportion as these things are absent must they
be low. Of course barometers are not to be too implicitly
trusted without knowledge of some other signs and tokens,
in the heavens and elsewhere ; and so may it be with the
Song-barometer. Rut there is a good deal to be judged from
both ; and as far as the latter indicates anything, it must be
judged that the great mass of the public in this country have
for the past thirty years or so been sunk in a Slough of
Musical Despond, such as can rarely have been provided
for any other nation under heaven. The very facilities
which song-writing has offered for making money with the
very least trouble has been its curse ; and it has conse¬
quently become a sort of business, by which a lazy and
slatternly taste is fostered in the public, and then fed with a
perfect flood of insipid and commonplace concoctions, which
have been consumed by the gallon, with the most pernicious
effects to art. The makers of the patent trade-song, from
which one may exclude successful composers in other
branches of art, have been for the most part helpless
dullards whose sentiment is sodden with vulgarity and
commonness, whose artistic insight is a long way below
zero, whose ideas of declamation are an insult to the
language, and whose musical incapacity is tragi-comic ; and
these have been thy gods, O Israel !

But strange to say, while things are almost at their worst,
hopeful signs of a change begin to show themselves. In
default of a ready artistic supply of home growth, there has
sprung up a very fair sale of first-rate foreign products ; and

a few brave publishers have risen above the pessimism of their
order, and made up their minds to encourage things which
are artistically meant, and musically healthy — and last, but
certainly not least, there are most encouraging evidences of
the beginning of a new outburst of lyric energy among the
very young rising composers. It is really surprising to see
how they come on. A few have already made their appearance
who show to an extraordinary degree the delicate quick¬
ness of perception, and the instinct for rounding off and
completing the musical presentation of a first-rate poetical
lyric such as is among the rarest of gifts — while those who
have a healthy feeling for declamation of their own language,
and are capable of being inspired by genuine poetry, and doing
things which are musically interesting and refined, look quite
a promising troop. How they will stand the difficulties and
dangers of the way remains to be seen. Meanwhile the
Hobby Horse hopes to have opportunities of nowand then
carrying round a specimen of genuine English Musical
Song — such as has artistic point, and delicacy, and purity
of sentiment, or any of those many charms which lie in the
province of the genuine song-writer ; and he starts with a
delicate and refined specimen by one of the foremost in the
ranks of the newly-rising band, whose lyrics are beginning
to be prized and welcomed by those who take pleasure in
what is genuinely artistic. C. Hubert H. Parry.

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ON REVISITING LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL.

The triple spire springs heavenward as of old ;

The bordering limes stand touched by no decay
Save Autumn’s ; still the gathered people pray ;

And ancient chants through ancient aisles are rolled
Yet hath not Time even here, his wings to fold,
Paused ; the hoar fane is full of yesterday ;

New blazonries dye sunlight ; new array
Of kings and saints the storied niches hold :

Pilgrim, that hither stealest to behold
The spot of thy departure on Life’s way,

Clings a like garland to thy temples grey ?

Is a like record of thy travel told ?

Rich in the new, nor rifled of the old,

Seek’st thou these precincts fortunate as they ?

R. Garnett.

September 23, 1887.

HE NEW REREDOS AT ST. PAUL’S
CONSIDERED IN ITS RELATION
TOTHEWHOLEDESIGNOFTHAT
CATHEDRAL.

Perhaps the one element of the art of
Sir Christopher Wren, which abides with
us above any other of the many and
the art of that master, the one element in
all his designs which, study we them never so often, occurs
and reoccurs to us with new wonder and unfailing delight,
is his unparalleled command over scale : I mean that felicity
of his in so relating the proportions of the masses and lines
of what is far away to what is near the eye, that the whole
composition appears vaster and more sublime than it really
is. The precise quality of this aspect of his art is of a nature
so subtle and evasive, that it is to be suggested rather than
defined however delicately. Indeed it is better that it should
be sought out every man for himself, than that I or any other
writer should attempt to give in words, what can only be
completely expressed in Architecture, and is proper to that
art alone. I will therefore make but one attempt to convey
to you my sense. St. Paul’s is to our hand, and we can wish
for no better example than the western front : so let us en¬
deavour to stand apart from the traffic under the low archway
of Doctors’ Commons, and watch whoever may chance to pass
on the opposite pavement : or perhaps we may be more fortu¬
nate, and find a man leaning against the south-western angle
of the cathedral. His height, as he leans there against the
plinth, will give us a certain unit of measurement by which
we shall be enabled to form a lively sense of the height of
that member. In like manner, knowing the invariable pro¬
portion of the plinth to the pilasters and entablature, we gain
thesamesenseof the entireorder, and so of the second or super¬
imposed order. Only observe that I say a lively sense, not an
exact knowledge, a sense that the dimension of this or that
order is so many times the height of a man, not a knowledge
that it is so many feet high, which tells us no more than any
other mathematical conclusion. But I am digressing,and have
carried you no farther than the upper order, while my thoughts
lie with the colossal statues which stand about the bases of
the campanili. We know but too well that these figures are

colossal, and yet are but too well content, if so far the spirit
of Wren has taken hold on us, to think of them as figures
of men only a little above the life. We may see in it
the ‘ ultima manus,’ or if we are people entirely of this
century, a mere trick ; but in the transition to these statues
from the endeavour to estimate the upper order the eye is
given unwittingly a new unit of measurement, and beholds
in the campanili a visionary grandeur, which, had the figures
been of another height, it would not have divined in them.
In this indefinable relation, effected by these statues, between
the western steeples and the men and women moving about
the portico, Wren evinces one of the finest touches of his
genius in its mastery over scale.

It is doubtless a desirable and noble endeavour to make
the cathedral of St. Paul’s a more beautiful house for the
offices of the Church, and therefore, because of this added
beauty, more winning to the people, that they should elect
to worship there. In the reredos lately completed we have the
first attempt of any significance to bring such an aim to pass ;
and in this it is worthy of all commendation. Yet if we
have any care for Wren’s work as a piece of art admirable
in itself, the beauty of which is rather to be increased than
out-done and set on one side, we must before all things
observe the principles that he observed, the subtlest of
which I have sought to point out to you in the foregoing
passage. We must relate to the whole building whatever
sculpture or decoration we may bring into the church, in pre¬
cisely the same manner as he related his statues on the west
front to the dome and the campanili, and, indeed, all parts
to the grand idea of his composition as a whole ; for if we
once break this harmony of subordination which runs through
the entire fabric, there must needs follow as pitiful a result,
as if the hand of the painter had erred in touching a mouth
or an eye, or the finger of the musician in the midst of one
of the fugues of Bach had faltered upon the clavichord.

The matter then, which I propose to myself, is to inquire
how far the method and temper of the designer of this new
reredos is in accordance with the method and temper evinced
by Wren in composing his cathedral ; to which end I shall
first consider the plan of the reredos, and then pass on to
the elevation. In the plan the main idea is that of a central

73 l

altar piece upon an oblong base, with a curved wing on
either side. These in the elevation produce an effect as of
one curved surface ; and placed immediately in front of the
semicircular apse, the impression of the east end is that of
curve against curve. But the unvarying practice of Wren,
and indeed of all the masters of Renaissance art, is to
counteract every curved form by a rectangular form, and
every rectangular form by a curve either of a circular or
other nature. His was too keen an instinct not to show
him in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, that curve
balanced only by curve, or line by line, produces a weak im¬
pression : and I think it requires very little discernment to
perceive how feeble and unscholarly the effect of the apse
has been rendered by the introduction of these curves in the
plan of the reredos. But to appreciate this distinction more
clearly let us turn to the “ Parentalia,” and learn Wren’s own
intention in the matter. He had conceived, we are told, “ a
Design of an altar-piece consisting of four Pillars wreathed,
of the richest Greek marble, supporting a canopy hemis¬
pherical with proper decorations of architecture and sculp¬
ture.” In such a design, the rectangular form of the
entablature, as it rested upon the columns of Greek marble,
would have given the necessary foil to the apse ; while the
hemispherical roof would have connected these two forms,
and so have brought the east end of the church into a
harmony ; and I cannot conceive of any other form of
altar-piece, save that of a Baldachino, which would have
exactly fulfilled the conditions necessary to produce such an
effect.

It has been noticed that in Gothic architecture the hori¬
zontal lines are always subordinated to those that are up¬
right, but that in the Classic styles the contrary principle is
observed. One might refine this criticism still further by
pointing out that though in the true Antique, as well as in
the Renaissance buildings, the upright lines were never
allowed to break the horizontal lines, yet in the later work,
following, as it did, the Gothic spirit, and especially in the
work of Wren, the total impression is no longer that of
the horizontal lines lying grandly upon the earth as in the
finest of the Roman theatres and temples, but eminently
and essentially that of the Mediaeval churches rising with

surprising height and spirituality of temper ; for the old
ordprs of Vitruvius had been informed with a new spirit,
the spirit of movement and aspiration. If we would come
to examine this sense of movement and see how it is
attained, we should find that such an analysis is only to a
certain extent permitted us, for the true secret of its nature
doubtless is one with that of the inscrutable presentation of
spirit understood in Literature, but misunderstood in Archi¬
tecture, as style.

So far, however, as it is possible, I will endeavour to
trace how Wren effected this. In the nave of St. Paul’s, as
indeed in the choir and transepts of the church, the main
pilasters, rising directly from low bases, are carried up with¬
out any break to the great height of the main entablature.
The loftiness of these pilasters is insisted upon chiefly by
two things, the omittance of any plinth, and the immediate
imposition of the vaulting upon the attic of the great order ;
yet in the subtle management of these simple elements Wren
obtains much of the sense of movement in that part of the
cathedral. But I am wrong in saying that he entirely
avoided the use of a plinth, for he has carried along the
walls of the aisles, and between the pilasters of the arcade,
a band of ornament at that height from the ground, which
would properly have determined the height of the plinth of
the great order. Wren has not, however, as an architect of
to-day would have done, ruled this band of ornament where-
ever it could reasonably be drawn on his elevation, but he
has used it here and there only as he instinctively felt it was
needed : and yet by this band of ornament he gives us all
the advantages of a plinth, such as the sense of a solid base
upon which the fabric rests, or the sense of a unit of
measurement whereby we can scale the building, without
any of the disadvantages which would follow in this instance
from an interference with the essential idea of the upward
movement of the great pilasters, consequent on the received
employment of such a member.

If entering by the west door we should chance for the first
time to see the new reredos on a fair day, the impression of
the whole, after the eye has become a little accustomed to
the brilliance of the gold on the white marble, is that of a
confusion of many columns and much sculpture resting

upon a double plinth. Nor is the designer content with
introducing a double plinth into a building of an acknow¬
ledged master, where this member is only suggested, and
that with the most subtle and delicate art, but he must
insist on their horizontal lines by introducing bands of dark
coloured marble which stand out with astonishing signi¬
ficance, inlayed as they are in the crystalline splendour of
the white marble. The result is an effect contrary to that
which Wren has striven to obtain ; and instead of move¬
ment and sublimity we receive a painful sense of a deadness
and lateral spread.

i spoke a few lines since of the confusion of many columns
and much sculpture ; to make my meaning clear, let us walk
to either side of the dome so that we can see the wood-work
of the choir-stalls. Here also is much ornament and of a
most florid kind, the naturalistic carving of Grinling
Gibbons. Technically it is very wonderful ; but wonderful
only as that pot of flowers by him, which shook surprisingly
with the motion of the coaches passing by in the street
below, was wonderful. Yet in this wood-work is neither
confusion nor restlessness, because this wealth of ornament
is never allowed to break or interfere with the chief lines,
which are always of the simplest and severest nature. In¬
deed this florid ornament is subordinated to these simple
and severe lines in the same manner as the lines themselves
are subordinated, both in their kind and proportions, to the
chief lines of the building. But in the reredos all these prin¬
ciples have been passed over ; the chief lines are wanting in
simplicity ; the sculpture and ornament are neither subor¬
dinated to these chief lines nor in themselves finely dis¬
posed ; and lastly, the design of the reredos as a whole is
not related to the design of the cathedral so as to become a
part of it, as the choir-stalls and the screens of the side
chapels are a part of it.

The chief lines are wanting in simplicity. If we consider
the lesser order of the colonnade in relation to the wreathed
order of the altar-piece proper, we miss that perfect sense of
union between the two orders which is distinctive of the
finest work ; but if we pass on to the consideration of the
lesser order of the wings in relation to the double plinth, we
are distressed by a most unpleasing disproportion, an entire

want of harmony; and without true harmony it is impossible
to obtain true simplicity, else were baldness simplicity.
But, moreover, there is a want of simplicity in a more
definite sense ; for a double plinth and a double order has
been used, where in such instances Wren has employed but
a single order with the usual plinth.

The sculpture and ornament are neither subordinated to
these chief lines, nor in themselves finely disposed. I must
confess I have been unable to discover what we are to under¬
stand by the term “ Greek marble,” of which Wren intended
to fashion the four wreathed columns of the Baldachino :
but from being spoken of as u the richest,” it would seem to
have been of a deep colour, and not the marble of Pentelicus,
or some other of an ivory sort. However, I am certain it
was of such a kind, that viewed from a distance it would have
appeared of a uniform tone : for a marble of a very pro¬
nounced figure would ill agree with the elaborate lines of this
form of column. But the architect of the reredos has not
only overlooked this nicety, but he has garlanded his columns
with gilt leafage work ; so that when we look at them from
a distance the outline of the columns is lost in the sheen of
the gilding and the mottling of the marble, and we do
not receive from them that impression, which is the first
thing to be demanded of a column, the sense of support.
This is but one instance of a want of due subordination in
the ornament to the chief lines of the design. But touching
the disposition of the sculpture ; let us consider the central
subject, the Crucifixion, as a mere arrangement of white
masses against a dark background, and then turn to a fine
example of the Florentine art it would emulate, such as that
altar-piece by Andrea della Robbia in the cathedral at
Arezzo, and how insipid an imitation does it appear by the
contrast ! What variety is there obtained by the simple
balance of the crucified Christ against the two kneeling
figures ! With what delicacy are the three groups of angels
on either side of the cross given their right degree of
prominence ; with what mastery are the winged heads dis¬
posed ! But here there is neither variety, nor a musical
arrangement of the masses.

Lastly, the design of the reredos as a whole is not related
to the design of the cathedral so as to become a part of it,

as the choir-stalls and the screens of the side chapels are a
part of it. By placing the lesser order of the wings upon
the double plinth, the highest member of its cornice is
brought on a level with the corresponding member of the
cornice of the pilasters that support the arcade ; by this
device not only is Wren’s practice in the use of a diminu¬
tive order inverted, but the whole effect of the arcade of
the choir is dwarfed, and all the finest touches of his art to
give that essential impression of movement and sublimity
rendered of no avail. And this brings me to the considera¬
tion of the most serious defect of the whole design, its
excessive height. Seen from the nave of the cathedral, we
have in the apse an echo of the lines of the dome, and a
beautiful close of the many lines of the building. It was
desirable to hide as little of this by an altar-piece as possible,
and so for this reason the form of a Baldachino especially
commended itself. But now the apse is practically cut off
from the rest of the church, and the reredos, from its great
height and extent, becomes a portion of the structure,
instead of the design of the cathedral.

It would seem to me, so far as I have been able to
discover, that the architect of the new reredos has en¬
deavoured to produce an effect of light and shade upon the
white marble columns and golden capitals as they mingle
with the perspective of the apse beyond, an effect akin in
temper, though but superficially, to the temper of Gothic
tabernacle-work with its want of restraint and its freedom
from premeditation. But the mysterious effects of Wren
were very differently produced. A critic, perhaps the
subtlest of our age, has observed of Leonardo da Vinci that
he was always desirous of beauty, “ but desired it always in
such definite and precise forms, as hands or flowers or hair.”
And so it was with Wren, who was always so desirous of
mysterious beauty, of vast sublimity, but desired it not only
in the definite and precise forms of the architecture of that
time, but in these forms used so logically that we can say
why each is used as it is, and not otherwise : indeed, there
is no whit of his detail which he has not argued out to its
last conclusion. Of these mere externals of his art we can
speak with precision, as one might gather up in one’s hands
the abundance of a woman’s hair ; yet the inscrutable spirit
of the thing evades us, and we cannot divine, even in our

own hearts, of what its mysterious beauty really consists ;
and who, then, shall speak of these things ?

The day is almost too late to put forth any suggestions
concerning the decoration of St. Paul’s : besides my re¬
marks are likely to be the most unpopular in this age of
extravagances ; but this, by the way, is a reason why I
should hazard them. Excepting, perhaps, some of the
mosaics in the spandril of the dome, any attempt as yet by
way of decoration, has been far from satisfactory. The
gilding of the stonework makes but a tawdry show and is
little in keeping with the solid magnificence of the masonry ;
and yet the problem is to tone down the cold effect of the
interior, as we see it at present. If the stonework is to be
left untouched, this can only be effected by the introduction
of colour in the glazing of the windows; but here, again, we
are met by another difficulty : for stained glass is essentially
mediaeval in sentiment, and the substitution of the irregular
leading of the modern windows for the square panes of
Wren’s clear glazing is in result so unhappy, that the mellow
light thus gained in no way balances the loss of the original
paning, the effect of which was so finely calculated by Wren.
There is in the three little eastern windows of the crypt,
some painted glass which, I am told, has been designed
and executed, within the last few years, by Mr. Westlake.
Here the square panes are more or less preserved, and the
design is freely drawn in a dark, reddish-brown colour,
regardless in a certain sense of the lead lines; and no
colour is introduced excepting the occasional use, here and
there, of a simple yellow stain. Windows such as these, if
we will only make clear to ourselves the difference between
painted and stained glass, and the necessary conditions
proper to the production of each, may be made as fine and
legitimate examples of art as the Jesse window at York, or
the windows of some of the French cathedrals. They would
be sufficient to mellow the cold masses of the stone work ;
they would partake of the temper of the building ; and, above
all things, the regular paning of Wren, which is so essential
to complete the full beauty of the whole composition, could
be exactly preserved in them.

One word concerning the mosaics and then I have done.
In spite of all that has been urged against Sir James
Thornhill’s paintings in the dome, however unworthy they

may be as paintings, yet considered purely from an archi¬
tectural stand-point there is much in them that is eminently
satisfactory. It is easy to say that it was from no wish of
Wren’s that their execution was entrusted to Thornhill, that
the faults of perspective in them are unpardonable, and that
Wren himself desired that the dome should be covered with
mosaics. Despite even these objections, I cannot but think
that their architectural lines were founded on the suggestions
of Wren, and that any new design which is to replace them
by mosaics must be based upon some variation of their
constructional lines, if it is to be permanently admired. To
me, that extraordinary sense of vastness, which we now feel
on looking up into the dome, is due in no slight measure to
the absence of colour ; for the sombre tones of the grissaile
work mingle with that cloud of grey atmosphere which so
often hovers beneath the cupola, obscuring all, until we
actually seem to fancy an apprehension of something beyond
the dome. Cover this retired space with the brilliance of
many colours, and from being far off and uncertain, its field
will become distinct, and so appear nearer the eye than it
does at present. But, after all, do not spaces that are nearer
the eyes, such as the vaults under the balconies in the dome,
at the junction of the aisles of the transepts with those of
the nave and choir, first demand to be filled ? Let these,
then, be covered with mosaics of a low and mellow tone,
where neither gold nor vivid hues have too marked a
prominence ; for nothing is farther from the intention of
Wren than this wealth of sumptuous marbles, this prodigal
blaze of colour, who much as he delighted in the beauty of
porphyry and jasper, and in the richness of splendid mosaics,
spared yet to “ interpose them oft,” and was not unwise.
He loved these things, indeed, but he used them seldom, that
thereby they might appear the more precious. We err if we
think that Wren conceived of his cathedral as ultimately to
be filled with all the exuberance of the Roman art of his
time ; it was conceived in the same temper as that in which
Milton conceived the “ Samson Agonistes”; with the same
severe restraint, possible only to the greatest spirits, as of
one working in perpetual awe of the imminent presence of
God; with the same simplicity and “plain heroic magnitude
of mind.” Herbert P. Horne.

THE MEMORIAL

TO THE MEN OF LETTERS OF THE
LAKE DISTRICT.

We appealed to our subscribers, about a year ago, for a
memorial to the writers who are connected with the English
Lakes. The more pressing needs of the Royal Jubilee
deferred the execution of our scheme ; but it has not been
abandoned, and in July we hope to report well of its further
progress. We thank those who have already helped us ; we
remind those who were interested in our plan, that subscrip¬
tions will now be thankfully received ; and we refer all other
readers to our number for January, 1887.

The Century Guild.

NOTES ON CONTEMPORARY WORK.

Miss May Morris has recently finished two large curtains, em¬
broidered from her own designs, upon a rich brocaded silk of a grayish
blue colour. A scroll carried along the top of the curtain bears this
verse, written especially for her by Mr. Morris, which best gives the
idea of the design : —

Lo, silken my garden, and silken my sky,

Silken the apple-boughs hanging on high,

All wrought by the worm in the peasant-carle’s cot,

On the mulberry leafage, when summer was not.

And so in this garden of embroidery a large scroll-like leaf, worked
in pale green and white silks, mixed with other leaves and flowers,
meanders over the blue background. On these are placed, in
decorative masses, the bushes of the garden, or rather Giottesque
clusters of boughs done in almost a vivid green, some bearing apples,
others flowers, others fruit and flowers. Embroideries such as these,
remarkable for the extreme beauty of their design, colour, and execu¬
tion, and important on account of their size, almost awake in us the
hope that the days of the ‘ Opus Anglicum ’ may yet return to us.

Amongst the many men of ability who gained the wide sympathy
of Dante Gabriel Rossetti not the least remarkable was J. Smetham
Allen. His mastery over his art is as wonderful as the means of ex¬
pression he employs is singular. Mr. Allen has the curious faculty of
conceiving a design in silhouette so strongly that he is able, without
hesitation, to cut it straight away out of a sheet of drawing paper ; nor
does he first avail himself of any pencil sketch, or other preliminary help.
These silhouettes sometimes contain six or more figures, and from their
imaginative qualities, design, and beauty of contour, are, in certain
ways, comparable to the outlines of Flaxman. They are, indeed,
illustrations in the best and only admissible sense of the word ; for
not only, as in a series recently done from ‘A Midsummer Night’s
Dream/ is every subject thoroughly realized, but each design, from
its imaginative rendering, becomes in its turn an original conception.
In the hope that these few words may lead some of our readers to
take an interest in Mr. Allen’s work, I will add that any inquiries will
find him at i, Ockenden Road, Essex Road, N.

THE CENTURY GUILD WORK.

The Architects :

Messrs. Mackmurdo & Horne, 28, Southampton St., Strand, W.C.

Business Agents for Furniture and Decoration, Tapestries, Silks,
Cretonnes, Wall Papers, etc. :

Messrs. Wilkinson & Son, 8, Old Bond St., W.

Messrs. Goodall & Co., 15 & 17, King St., Manchester.

Picture Frames designed by the Guild :

Mr. Murcott, Framemaker, 6, Endell St., Long Acre, W.C.

Beaten and Chased Brass, Copper, and Iron Work :

Mr. Esling, at the Agents of the Century Guild.

In drawing attention to our own work, we have added, with their permission,
the names of those workers in art whose aim seems to us most nearly to accord
with the chief aim of this magazine. Our list at present is necessarily limited,
but with time and care we hope to remedy this defect.

Embroidery :

The Royal School of Art Needlework, Exhibition Road, South
Kensington, W.

Miss May Morris gives private lessons in embroidery, particulars
on application, Kelmscott House, Upper Mall, Hammersmith.

Engraved Books and Facsimiles of the Works of Wm. Blake :

Mr. Muir, The Blake Press, Edmonton.

To be had of Mr. Ouaritch, 15, Piccadilly, W.

Furniture and Decoration :

Rhoda and Agnes Garrett, 2, Gower St, W.C.

J. Aldam Heaton, 27, Charlotte St, Bedford Sq., W.C.

Carpets, Silks, Velvets, Chintzes, and Wall Papers, Embroidery, and
Painted Glass:

Messrs. Morris & Company, 449, Oxford St., W.

Carving, and Modelling for Terra Cotta or Plaster Work :

Mr. B. Creswick, At the Agents of the Century Guild.

Designing and Engraving upon Wood :

Mr. W. H. Hooper, 5, Hammersmith Terrace, W.

Flint Glass, cut and blown, also Painted Glass :

Messrs. J. Powell & Sons, Whitefriars Glass Works, Temple St., E.C.

Painted Glass, and Painting applied to Architecture and Furniture :

Mr. Selwyn Image, 51, Rathbone Place, W.C.

Painted Pottery and Tiles :

Mr. William De Morgan, 45, Great Marlborough St., Regent St., W.
Picture Frames :

Mr. Charles Rowley, St. Ann’s St., Manchester.

Printing :

The Chiswick Press, 21, Tooks Court, Chancery Lane, E.C.

All Kinds of Wind Instruments :

Rudall, Rose, Carte & Co., 23, Berners St., W.

Reproductions of Pictures :

Photographs of Pictures by D. G. Rossetti,

To be had of Mr. W. M. Rossetti, 5, Endsleigh Gardens, N.W.

Platinotype Photographs from the Works of G. F. Watts, R.A., E.
Burne-Jones, A.R.A., and others,

Mr. Hollyer, 9, Pembroke Square, Kensington, W.

Processes for Reproduction of Pictures and Drawings as used in this
Magazine,

Messrs. Walker & Boutall, 16, Clifford’s Inn, Fleet St., E.C.

CHISWICK PRESS : — C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.

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